A sweetheart story is what I crave. The sweep-off-the-feet type that rides my heart into the

sunset with the faint letters rolling in the background. As innocent as prince charming, in

desperate search of their damsel in distress.

Last month, I spent an evening partying with a colleague — it ended with me crying to him at my apartment and telling him about every single traumatic experience I’ve had in my life. I have known him for four months only and I work on time-sensitive productions with him every single day at the office.

Look at us, pretending to be normal, out to dinner on a weeknight, ordering the same beer like old friends.  There was a food truck inside the restaurant and an exposed brick wall.

He took a bite from his dinner and washed it down with his beer.

She had skin like honey. Drizzled over each limb, down the nape of her neck. My own, in comparison, is pale; my back is scarred with past acne, my thighs raked with thin white stretch marks and dull, greying bruises. For her, the sunlight clung, in sheets of golden gossamer, to each of her limbs.